


Prayer

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Insecurity, Jealousy, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, but it's one line, v. brief reference to domestic violence/rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13675674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: If she could pray here, what would she pray for? And to whom? To the Smith, to help her make these strange Northerners think her one of their own? To the Mother, to give her more children, more heirs to their father's lands? To the Maiden, to make Ned love her?Early in her marriage, Catelyn goes to the godswood to pray, and to her surprise her prayers are answered.





	Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/promptsnsfw) prompt generator, which gives a bunch of elements at once. In this case, it gave me the following.
> 
> Setting: Castle  
> Genre: Fluff and Porn  
> Trope: Fake/Pretend Relationship  
> Prompt: Fish out of water character/scenario  
> Kink: Oral fixation
> 
> Although I had to get a bit metaphorical with the fake relationship element to make it all work.

Catelyn still wakes at the crack of dawn, as if she is meant to visit the sept before breaking her fast, although she has no sept to go to.

When she pushes her furs back she is hot, sweaty, and whether that is the walls of the chambers her lord husband has given her or dreams she cannot remember, she cannot say. The sun is not up yet, the plains of the North outside still seeming cold and dark, but she knows she won't be able to sleep again. With a sigh Catelyn rises from bed, wiping her brow with a cool cloth before dressing herself in linen underskirts and a thick woollen dress to face the day outside. She knows the second she steps outside these doors she'll freeze.  


The cold air hits her and makes her shudder, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. Now she is awake, she is left with the curious question of what to do now. Her belly gurgles and she could make her way to the kitchens to ask for her morning meal, but it is so early, she doubts any of the servants are even awake yet. If she woke them to feed her, they would do so, of course, but they would mislike her for it. She could go to the library and read until the castle stirs, but it may be locked, and she does not wish to wake anyone just to let her in.  


Eventually, she does what seems to be her most common action these days, which is to go and check on Robb. She finds him tucked happily in his cradle, sleeping peacefully, a rare miracle at that age. His nurse is taking advantage of the respite to get some rest herself. Catelyn cracks a small smile. When she first made the journey north with her son, she feared it would be hard for him, so young and fragile, he would not acclimate to his new home's harshness. But Robb, just now nearing his first name day, seems to have adjusted perfectly. Much more than she has.  


The nurse starts to stir from the light poking through the door, and Catelyn frowns before she closes it. _Let them sleep._  


She makes her way out to the courtyard, hearing some sounds of life, the first strike of the blacksmith's iron and the moans of cows being sent to milk. She wonders if they all wonder what she's doing out here so early. She does not know herself. A fierce gust of wind hits her and her teeth chatter, and she pulls her dress more tightly around her body. _It is so cold._ Still, she is lucky she did not have to come here until after Spring broke, although she still can't quite believe that this is a Northern spring, Still, if she can't handle this, how will she cope when Winter comes? The Starks do make such a point of reminding everyone that it will.  


It is too early, too dark, it makes her melancholy. Back at Riverrun she would visit the sept at this hour, confess her fears before the great statue of the Father, seek guidance from the Crone. But that is not an option here. She tells herself the gods are still with her in her heart, but if so, why does she feel so lost and alone? Why does she feel like she must keep them secret, lest this cold land think her a traitor?  


Of course, all of Winterfell _knows_ she's a southerner, with her southern voice and southern gods. It's the whole reason she's here, a token bartered away for her father's swords and men. That may be unkind. It's not as if Ned has treated her badly, well, except – but he is a good man, a good husband, and she is lucky to be with him. She could have been sent off to someone who would beat and rape her, and she could do nothing about it. Compared to that, feeling cold a lot and not knowing where to pray is nothing.  


But still, her lord husband is so distant, even now they've been wed over a year – granted, having only seen each other for a few months of that time – and she does not feel like his wife, not yet. She feels like a foreign visitor everyone must humour until her business is done, and then she will be sent home again.  


She knows it's a foolish thing to fear; she wed Ned in the sight of the Old Gods and the New, lost her maidenhead to him and has already given him a male heir, she would be so easily gotten rid of. But she still feels like she could be pushed aside at any moment. _It's that boy,_ she thinks, and perhaps that's stupid but her pulse always races whenever she holds little Robb in her arms and looks across the castle to see Ned doing the same for his own child, the child who already looks so much like him, so purely Northern. She can't help but fear that her son, with his Tully hair and eyes, will never live up, and nor will she.  


In her nightmares, the boy's mother comes to Winterfell, dark and strong, a proper Northern maid. And with her son in Ned's arm, the image of what a son of the North should be, it would be very clear who was his _true_ wife. They tell her that her marriage to Ned did not count, not in the southern sun with only an oak tree to witness, and they send her away with her bastard in hand, back to the flowery south where she belongs.  


Tears spring to her eyes and she cannot tell if it's the gust of wind that strikes her or her own thoughts. Either way, she turns her face, hoping none of the few also awake at this hour will see her. She's sure they all think she's weak, they thinking everything from the south is weak, and she does not wish to confirm her fears.  


She must find somewhere private before she loses face completely, and it would be easiest to turn and return to her chambers, but that seems too much a defeat – to lock herself away and concede she will never have a place in this castle. _The godswood,_ she thinks. She woke this early because she is in the habit of praying, and where else would a Northerner pray?  


Briskly, she struts across the courtyard and out to the forests. She thinks she's made a mistake as soon as she steps foot there. It is warmer here, the hot springs bubbling beneath the soil, but it is also darker, the great red leaves blocking out what little sun there is. Catelyn feels small beneath them. _I am Lady of Winterfell. I have as much right to be here as anyone,_ she tells herself, and ignoring the lump in her throat, she presses on.  


Slowly, she makes her way to the great heart tree at the centre of the forest, the red face slashed in its white bark strange and terrible. She shivers as she kneels before it. What is it she fears so much? That Ned does not love her? _Of course he doesn't love you, he hardly knows you,_ she reminds herself, and it should not hurt as much as it does.  


She is not fool enough to convince herself she has not come to care for him, his quiet strength and hidden warmth and shy smile she sees so rarely. She knows very well why it fills her with such dread, the thought he might never feel anything for her at all.  


But he is a good man, and far too honourable to send her away in disgrace as her nightmares tell her she should fear – he would not if he wanted to. Perhaps that would be worse, that he would keep the vows he made to her even if the woman he truly loved returned to him, the woman who made him stray at least the once, and he would resent her more and more for the fact he could not do it again.

Men stray, she reminds herself, and she always thought it said far more about them than it did the women they strayed from. Still, she can't shake the thought that if she was something more than the foreign bride he had to take in his brother's place, if he was a true Northern maid like he deserved, he would not have done so. If she was one of those warrior women they have on Bear Island, he would not have dared.

Ned is always kind to her, in her bed and out of it. Perhaps too kind. He touches her so reluctantly, seemingly afraid of hurting her, but perhaps not, perhaps he really is just reluctant. Perhaps if it were up to him he would never touch her at all. He has told her she can call him Ned, as half the North seems to, but he always looks so surprised when she does so. She is his wife in name, but it seems, that's all. Perhaps that's all she will ever be.  


If she could pray here, what would she pray for? And to whom? To the Smith, to help her make these strange Northerners think her one of their own? To the Mother, to give her more children, more heirs to their father's lands? To the Maiden, to make Ned love her?  


She tries to collect all her thoughts, her griefs and terrors, into some form resembling a prayer. Just then the wind strikes her once more, knocks the air from her lungs. _Go,_ the Old Gods seem to whisper, red leaves rustling above her head. _You will not find your Seven here. We have no use for you._  


Something falls upon her cheek and she looks up to realise it has started snowing. Just a light dusting, a spring snow – it snows in spring here. Hurriedly, she wipes it away, but it does no good. Once the cold water melts onto her skin, there is no stopping the hot tears joining it. _Oh gods no._ But the gods aren't listening. Catelyn is a woman now, eight and ten, a mother, and the Lady of Winterfell. But she feels like a stupid little girl, weeping because the boy she loves does not love her back.  


Then she hears a crunch and jumps. “Catelyn?”  


When she turns her head she sees a man standing by her side, frowning at her, puzzled. Ned. “My lord,” she says and wipes her face once more, not wanting him to see her cry.  


He keeps frowning. “...What are you doing here?”  


She can't help but wince. She's sure he did not mean it that way, but it feels like another reminder of how much she does not belong. “I wanted to pray, my lord,” she murmurs, unable to explain all the rest of it.  


“Here?” he asks, clearly still puzzled. Catelyn simply bites her lip. He sighs as he slides down to his knees before her. “And I said you could call me Ned.”  


_You said that, but did you mean it?_ She can't answer him like that though. “Where else would I pray?” she asks, and she curses herself as soon as she says it; it sounds so self-pitying. Ned frowns at her and she averts her eyes. “Catelyn...” he says, and she can't quite keep from sniffing; she is breaking down once more, and can no longer hide it. _He'll think me a fool_. “...Are you alright?”  


She looks back up and it's as if he's finally seen her, with bloodshot eyes and her frame trembling. _What do you think?_ part of her could snap, but another part is just grateful he seems to care. “I–” and she does not know how to answer. “I'm sorry,” she chokes out.  


“What ever for?” Ned asks, and she does not know the answer to that. As she struggles with her sobs, he keeps frowning, and his hand hovers toward her. _He does not want to touch me,_ she thinks, but he does, gently pulling her to lean against his chest, his hands ghosting through her hair. It's an awkward embrace, but it is an embrace, and the thud of his heartbeat beneath her ear comforts her some, even if in the end it means little. “It's alright,” he whispers, “I understand.”  


She frowns. How could he understand? But then he continues. “I remember what it was like when I first went to the Eyrie, and there was no godswood there. Jon was very apologetic, and I understood, but... it did make me feel homesick.”  


Catelyn pauses. She's always forgetting her lord husband spent so many years in the Eyrie, is half a southerner himself. She feels silly for being such a wreck now. “Ned,” she says as she looks up at him, his grey eyes warm, soft, worried, snow falling on his face, catching in the beard he's grown to make him look more a man, turning the soft lips beneath pink with cold. She does not know how to finish her sentence, so instead she just leans up and presses her lips to his.  


As a gesture it feels needy, foolish, desperate. But Ned does not push her away, although he makes a small noise of surprise; soon his warm hand tangles in her hair and pulls her closer, his tongue running teasingly across her lips. She moans softly and opens her mouth to give him access, falling into his embrace. His beard scratches her jaw but his lips are soft and smooth. It's not as if they've never kissed before, far from it, her lord husband is too good a man to fuck her without doing her the courtesy of kissing her first – but there is something different in it now, something rawer, more honest.  


“Ned,” she gasps against his mouth and his face moves, his lips fixing upon the skin of her neck and sucking, hard. “Oh!” she cries out and she clings to his shoulders, lost as to why he would do such a thing. He mouths at her skin hard enough he'll likely leave a mark, and something in her throbs at the thought, of wearing the proof that at least in this moment, he does desire her.  


“Catelyn,” he answers as his lips break away from her neck, kissing her own again as his hand finds her skirts, and starts to push them up.  


She moans softly once more. “Call me Cat,” she gasps without thinking about it, and she's not quite sure what is happening. _He means to lie with me,_ and that should not be so strange given she is his wife, but this is so far from their ritualistic encounters in her bedchambers that it does not quite feel real, it seems like a dream. But a good dream. Even the roar of the leaves and cold of the snow do not seem so harsh anymore, they seem meant to encourage her, and him also.  


“Cat,” he echoes without pause, and when she turns her head to look him in the eye, she can see him blushing faintly. It brings a smile to her face. Her lord husband has always been shy. His hand gropes her thigh and she gasps. “You're beautiful, Cat,” he tells her, and it's far from the first time she's ever been told that, but she's never quite believed it as she does in this moment. “You are so beautiful, sometimes I can't believe your hair. Your hair. Gods, I love your hair.”  


He presses his lips to her hair, and she can feel his skin burning against her own. Her heart melts at the thought he would push through his embarrassment like that to tell her what she needs to hear. _I must mean something to Ned._ “Oh, Ned,” she sighs, lost for words, not least because his thighs have tangled with her own and he has a hand pressed over the front of her smallclothes. She moans as he rubs her slit with the palm of his hand. _Touch me, please,_ she wants to beg, but then she pauses. “Wait, Ned,” she says, reluctantly pushing him away ever so slightly, “should we–? I mean, we're in the godswood.”  


And Ned smiles at her. “The Old Gods do not mind,” he says, kissing her once more. “You are my wife. They want to know I have fulfilled my duties to you.”  


Catelyn is not sure she understands, to do such a thing in the sept would be a horrible blasphemy, and she supposes this is one more way in which she is ever the foreigner. But it does not bother her so much now, not with Ned's mouth upon her own, kissing her so desperately it's as if he can't stop. His hand makes its way beneath her underthings and she does not try to stop him as his firm, calloused fingers feel along her slit, finding her wet and eager. If he has no problem making love to her in the eyes of his Old Gods, she has no problem with it either. And if the gods, old or new, do, they can bloody well try and stop them.

Ned's mouth finds her neck again, and she moans loudly, shamelessly, wrapping her legs around his waist to spur him on. “Ned!” And he chuckles faintly against her skin, perhaps realising she's sensitive there. She would be cross, but one of his fingers slips into her just as his spare hand grabs and fondles one of her teats, and that makes it impossible to do anything but moan. “Gods be good,” she whispers, and she does not know which gods she means, but it does not matter anymore.

Suddenly his mouth leaves her skin and his hands move, making her whimper in disappointment, and mayhaps fear. “Ned?” she asks, afraid he might have changed his mind, decided he does not want her anymore, but then she sees him pulling her smallclothes down to her knees. The snow falling on her bare thighs makes her shiver, but no more than the sight of him leaning down between her legs. “Ned!”  


She gasps at the first touch of his tongue against her slit, shy and cautious, still seeing how she'll react. She moans and squirms against it. She is not so naïve she has not heard such things may be done, but at the same time it goes against all she was taught lovemaking was for, and all they have done together so far, so sire children and nothing else. Still, she can't resist it, lifting her legs into the air to give him more room and sighing as his tongue pushes harder against her.  


Ned slowly grows braver, exploring her with his mouth and she mewls slightly at the feel of his beard scratching against her thighs. That might leave a mark too, and she shudders. Ned's tongue slides up and circles the nub at the top of her slit, and she cries out, thrashing against the ground and grabbing a thatch of his hair, tugging recklessly. “Oh Ned, Ned!”  


He moans himself then, making her wonder what pleasure he can be getting out of this, but her noise and greed only seems to spur him on, making his mouth move against her faster, harder, as if he can't get enough of her, and she thrusts back toward him desperately. What he does now clearly isn't meant to get to a child on her, it does not even serve to satisfy his needs. He means only to bring her pleasure, and Catelyn moans at the thought. Trembling beneath his mouth, she feels like a goddess herself, like he not only loves her – he _worships_ her.  


Two of his fingers push back into her slit and she cries out, her back arching off the heart tree she leans against as she clenches around his fingers and thrashes some more, her peak overtaking her. Ned moans again and licks at her furiously as she shudders through it, only pausing when she starts to whimper, left sensitive. There's a pause as he pulls his mouth away, and she tries to catch her breath, snowflakes still landing on her face. “Catelyn?” he asks, and he presses a kiss to her hip. “Are you alright?”  


Eventually, she nods. “I'm fine, my – Ned.” At the very least, she certainly feels better now that she did before, cold or not. She offers her hand to him to pull him back up, and he takes it, letting her lean forward and kiss him once more, tasting herself on his tongue. The thought sends a guilty thrill through her, finding proof that he is hers, just as she is his, like their vows said. He sighs into her mouth, and when they part, he smiles at her, blushing faintly again.  


“So, was it – alright?” he asks, and she frowns. Does he really have to ask her that? “I, um – I haven't really done that before. I've wanted to awhile, but I wasn't sure how to...”  


He blushes even deeper, unable to finish his sentence. Catelyn can't help but smile. At the very least, she knows she's had something from him no other woman has. “It was wonderful,” she says, her hand finding his hair. “I – thank you.”  


“It was no hardship,” he tells her, and she then looks down to see his breeches, straining to keep his prick enclosed. She bites her lip. “You should have a sept,” he murmurs, and she looks back up, caught off-guard. “You should be able to pray when you like. I'll have one built for you.”  


She frowns. “Your people won't like it,” she points out. She's sure they all see her as a bad influence, this strange southerner come to lead their lord away from the proper Northern ways.  


Ned frowns in turn. “They don't have to,” he says bluntly. “You are my wife. You deserve to pray as you will. Your faith is a part of you, Catelyn, I would never ask you to give that up.”  


And part of her is tempted to tell him it's still a bad idea, but another part can't help but be won over by the thought he would make such a gesture for her. “...If you insist, Ned,” she says, her cheeks coloured pink, and he smiles at her. Perhaps she will never quite conquer her doubts, perhaps she will always fear there may be another woman out there he loves more than her, but she also can't believe she means nothing to him either. “But first of all, I feel I ought to repay your generosity.” He raises an eyebrow, and she leans forward, meaning to take his cock in hand and show him something of the pleasure he just showed her.

Before she can however, a deep yawn suddenly overtakes her body, and she collapses against his chest with a thud. A pause, and then his chest tremors beneath her head, and he's clearly trying very hard not to laugh. Then Catelyn laughs herself, giving him permission. “On second thought, maybe we should head back to the castle first,” she says. “I'm quite tired, and I doubt you want to have to carry me back from here.”

“I can think of worse things,” Ned answers, but he rises to his feet and offers his hand to help her up. Cat hurriedly pulls her underthings up and her skirts down before standing, and when she does, the cold air hits once more, making her shiver. _It's just wind,_ she tells herself, and when she looks up to the leaves of the weirwood, they no longer seem so cold. They are red, the same red her hair is. Mayhaps the Old Gods have a plan for her after all. “You seem cold,” says Ned.  


“It's nothing,” Catelyn tells him, but Ned won't stand for that. Hurriedly, he takes the cloak from his shoulders, with its warm fur collar, and wraps it around her own. Cat opens her mouth to protest, but then she doesn't, instead burrowing into it. It keeps her warm.  



End file.
